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Well, it's morning and I'm still feeling a little broken, if less so. I'm supposed to be working today, but I can swap it with tomorrow if I want to. I may do that and spend today trying to reassemble myself.

I've been meaning to write a riff on a phrase Michael sent me, "work as worship", and perhaps this is the time.

First:

wor·ship (wûrshp)
n.
1.
a. The reverent love and devotion accorded a deity, an idol, or a sacred object.
b. The ceremonies, prayers, or other religious forms by which this love is expressed.
2. Ardent devotion; adoration.
3. often Worship Chiefly British Used as a form of address for magistrates, mayors, and certain other dignitaries: Your Worship.
v. wor·shiped or wor·shipped, wor·ship·ing or wor·ship·ping, wor·ships
v.tr.
1. To honor and love as a deity.
2. To regard with ardent or adoring esteem or devotion. See Synonyms at revere1.
v.intr.
1. To participate in religious rites of worship.
2. To perform an act of worship.
[Middle English worshipe, worthiness, honor, from Old English weorthscipe : weorth, worth; see worth1 + -scipe, -ship.]
worship·er, worship·per n.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2009. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.


Let's start with this: I'm pretty deeply agnostic. I can't summon up the hubris to transform my mystical/spiritual/numinous feelings and impulses from personal to universal absolute. There are too many conflicting voices on the subject of religion for me to feel comfortable privileging the expertise of any one group. I don't even understand enough about psychology and social construction to know how a more workable society would have to be put together, and given my little knowledge of the complex systems involved in ecology I don't much trust anyone who claims to have the answers to that, either.

So in terms of Absolute Truth, assuming there is such a thing (I'm doubtful most of the time) I have no answers.

I do have a flourishing system of top-of-the-mind beliefs, actions, and rituals though. I have a lot of numinous impulse, I am prone to mystic states, and I like to love and cherish things. It definitely improves my life to run with that, to think it through a little bit, and to introduce casual beliefs and practices into my daily life. I believe these things much like I believe the best way to get to downtown is to catch the #99 and then the Skytrain: it totally works well right now, might change at any time, it really depends on where precisely I'm going, and everything is subject to service disruption.

One of the practices that works for me is thinking of each strand in the ecological web as sacred, and by this I mean each person and thing within it. Assuming creation through any deliberate or semi-deliberate means, these things were put here by God/s' own hand and as such are sort of a holy gift, and thus the relationships between them are a form of worship. Your relationship with yourself is a form of worship. You can neglect that aspect, as you might go to church to flirt or out of duty, but then you're ignoring something potentially nourishing for your soul.

Assuming no deliberate or semi-deliberate creation, let's talk about blind evolution for a moment. Let's talk about iteration, about steps continuously taken in spite of testing and challenge and caprice. Let's talk about perseverance towards a goal, about reaching and striving, about gloriously winning out in the face of all opposition but never being able to rest on your accolades. Let's talk about the way knees wear twin dishes into a prayer rug after so many many years. Now let's talk about what worship is, about what makes something holy.

...perhaps let's not talk much more about it, though. These are both backwards justifications I can come up with for this innate sense that everything is precious. Every. Thing. A leaf, a hand, every leaf, every hand, every voice has meaning and has its own keys to God/s or transcendence or joy or whatever it is you're gunning for. I'll gloss over this because, although I could argue the point, I have no desire to do so. I understand this to be a personal belief.

It does mean that one of my religious goals, for lack of a better term, is to treat everything with worship. There's no way for this not to improve my life; suddenly I am surrounded by sacred mysteries to explore and holy things to reverence. To get back to the quote which triggered this, my own life is worthy of worship, and one of the ways I worship myself is through the sometimes onerous, repetitive, or challenging task of working. This is serious worship, not a Sunday picnic but days full of challenge and ritual in service of something holy.

To take it a little further, I often feel that things created by people, while useful perhaps as simplified metaphors, are not not as worthy of a life's service, and certainly are not worthy of notice to the exclusion of the rest of the world. Time spent in study of people, plants, social systems, ecological webs, even geological systems or physics: that's worship. Time spent engaging in movies, TV, video games, and even books without using it to tie into and reference the rest of the world, perhaps even as a way of ignoring the world around you?

That's idolatrous.
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It seems like a little bit of nothing poetry, but it fills me with light. I guess we all need a reminder.

God Says Yes To Me

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her is it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

Kaylin Haught
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The Answer

Is the clarity, the simplicity, an arriving
or an emptying out? If the heart persists
in waiting, does it begin to lessen?
If we are always good does God lose track
of us? When I wake at night, there is
something important there. Like the humming
of giant turbines in the high-ceilinged stations
in the slums. There is a silence in me,
absolute and inconvenient. I am haunted
by the day I walked through the Greek village
where everyone was asleep and somebody began
playing Chopin, slowly, faintly, inside
the upper floor of a plain white stone house.

by Jack Gilbert
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I finish these weeks pretty worn out. At the end of every Friday class I have this touch of panic, and an emotional drop-- I don't want to go back to the real world for the weekend, and there it waits for me. I've been in a world without physical touch, without a second's spare time, since Monday night and then everything gets dumped on its head. I'll have a couple of hours of homework, maybe a little more; I'll have likely a date with Michael that involves snuggling, some Burn Notice time planned with Andrew, and a bunch of homey type stuff with Angus. I'm not great at bridging that gap, and the transitions are a little rough. Luckily it seems to be more or less my term pattern. When changes like that are embedded in routine it becomes easier for me to deal with them: the thing has happened before a million times and no one died, so why should I worry now? Last night it only bothered me for a couple of hours.

Oh, look at this. Pretty snazzy, mm? That's me.

Soon the school portion will end Saturday early evening and begun Monday morning. There won't be much of a transition at all because there won't be much to transition to. Those will be very full six-day weeks, plus homework and likely work on the Sunday too. Honestly I can't wait for longer days that will allow me to work later; one ten or twelve hour day per weekend would make a big difference both to how much I need to cram into a week and also to my paycheque.

Work still loves me. I still have this weird sense of inadequacy there, like at some point they'll find me out and stop liking me. The last guy or three they had in my position were pretty awful, so since I've been working there the guys' stress levels have gone way down, apparently. I get all the work that needs to be done, always, no matter what-- sometimes I flex it, sometimes i take a longer lunch one day and skip lunch the next, sometimes things bleed over from one day to the next, some days I'm very thorough and some days I squeak through pretty quickly. Those things make me feel guilty, I guess, but there's both tacit and overt approval from my bosses, and I guess as long as everything gets done and they don't ever need to worry about it that's what I'm paid for. There's always more work to do to make things perfect than I have done, though. I would like everything to always be perfect.

I have my grow lights up in my house! I know I've said that before, but my mahoganies, which were languishing, are now thriving. I need to get decent pots for them, in fact. There's so much gardening I need/want to do. I guess the thing about grow lights in my house is, I've wanted them since I was 8 or so, and at 8 they were way beyond my allowance money. Since then I've been unstable, haven't had space-- but now here I am, with them over my computer. I could start tomatoes by my computer! I need to look up when Seedy Saturday is.

Angus has a fairly solid commitment for a barback-type job weekend evenings again, which means means wondrous things. For one, though he always had rent, I was carrying or worrying about a lot of our food budget and that can back off somewhat and let me resume tuition saving (I hope). For another, it means that even if I spend one night a week with Michael, I'll have an evening to myself in my home. This is... pretty exciting, to be honest. I'm also pretty damn impressed with the way Angus went about it: I'd been offering to help him with his resume, but was busy the day he started, so I gave him the communications book from school, which has a resume section, and told him to see how far he could go. He turned out a pretty snazzy product that fits the far thing well, and I didn't have to do anything. So, yay on that front.

Likewise paid and unpaid work is trickling in for Michael, things he loves doing, not quite enough to make a living on but closer; the total drought of money is clearing up some. I'm so glad. He's happier, and there's no way to complain about that.

For that matter, even Graydon is happier than he used to be; he moved, he was a zombie for, well, a long time, and now his shell's cracking open in my presence. Some people have moved further away from me in the last several weeks, but it seems people are also moving closer, and-- I can accept that. I'm not kicking against it.

Last night I watched Kingdom of Heaven and it's given me a serious yearning to rerererererereread the Elenium and Tamuli series by David Eddings. I might do that; I haven't been reading at all lately. There's also a book called Where the Wild Asparagus Grows or something like that which should be on my list. It would be nice to actually read again. It's escapist as all hell for me, almost to pathological levels, but it's calming.

The ring I have worn since Spring Mysteries last year, that reminded me to be at peace with change in all its facets, is starting to feel uncomfortable on my finger. It's not that my fingers are larger or smaller; it's just a presence that makes itself known where for so long I didn't think about it. Early Bird registration for the festival is up. It'll be interesting to see what happens this year.

Mmm. Nice to be conversational on here again. Talk to you soon.
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Okay. Here we are, home and safe.

This was Sickle weekend. I brought [livejournal.com profile] kindelingboy. It's funny to think I've been going long enough to be bringing people of my own instead of being that new girl brought by Angus.

I am so incredibly glad I went, glad I brought the Writer, and glad to be back home.

I always feel powerful and protected at Sickle, or something to that effect. I don't break into pieces like I do at SMF. This weekend my role was comforter, and I was deeply engaged with people as a human- through snuggling, through sex, through talking, through touch. I hadn't realised just how disconnected I'd become with my schedule beating me down: I hadn't been having much sex, I was getting very little physical contact, and in the last couple weeks I basically hadn't communicated anything at all even to the people closest to me.

Some of this is because I'd been terribly busy. Some of it is because I'd been afraid to move on an issue-- namely, the issue of what's going on between Angus and I.

This is the first time I'd been in a situation more than a couple of hours long with both Angus and the Writer present. I got to make all those fun attention decisions, and in reality the whole thing went very smoothly. The Writer enjoyed himself, I enjoyed myself and spent a lot of time being mindful about not worrying about things, and as always Angus gathered his personal power and presence about himself and shone like a beacon.

When we came home, Angus and I had the talk we've been putting off for possibly even months now. It was a clarifying talk with no plan or solution, but it helped immensely. He's not sure he can be with a poly person. I'm poly and I value a lot of the things that drive and inform that choice, too much to change them much. We love each other an incredible amount, and have both been pretty miserable with each other on and off. If we'd been anyone else we would have left, but-- there's something. That's where things stand. It's good to have it aired out. We feel comfortable being loving towards each other now, just taking what we have until whatever happens next happens. I look forward to coming home to him. There's no dread hanging in the air.

The Writer, a self-professed religion nerd, enjoyed the weekend and also got something out of it. I'm glad of that. I had felt a little bit strange inviting him, but in some sense it was also a test of sorts, or a screening process: I wanted to know whether it would be purely academic for him or if it would resonate with his, er, spiritual leanings, I suppose. I'm not saying I was trying to convert him -- I am not converted myself -- but I was trying to learn if he could find real meaning there. He did. I am glad. Before Angus I never considered a partner's spiritual inclination as a mark of their fitness as a partner, but now I find it an awfully nice thing to have mesh even a little.

For myself, I was whole and protected, as I said. I was not reborn nor broken into pieces, but instead delved around and under some blocks and cast aside some of the limits I'd been imposing on myself. I tend to feel that I deserve success and happiness in one area only at the expense of it in other areas, and that's not the way the world works. Sometimes you get happiness and success whether you deserve it or not. Other times, oftentimes, you can create those things for yourself regardless of what else you're doing.

I'm glad of this lesson. I feel stronger. I need to speak my truth more often, and I will.

I also got hugged by a million people I've wanted to be hugged by for awhile, some particular ones many times. I could live at these festivals all my life and never be through hugging some of these people-- there just aren't enough hours in the day. My body is less jangly, and nnow at peace, although it hurts like crazy from sitting in the car that long and I'm also so exhausted I can't focus my eyes.

I am dead tired or I'd write more. Be well.

Oh my God.

Sep. 1st, 2010 05:23 pm
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Giant Saint Everything

There were days I wanted out.
But then You would go and do things
like dive into the Vancouver ocean,
big brilliant cliché poem that You are,
water rolling off Your back
as You swam toward a sunset
that hung like a sacred recipe painted
all the way around Your holy head.

And then there were the ways You caught me
moving back into my cave where the wheels turn,
same wheels that drove You off.
I should have told You
before talking in terms of Forever
that any given day wears me out and works me sour,
that there are nights when the sky is so clear
I stand obnoxious underneath it
begging for the stars to shoot at me
just so I can feel at Home.

What’s left of You now is a shrine
built from the pieces I kept of Your presence,
Your incredible stretch of presence.
It sits in Our room like a sandpiper
cross-legged and crying,
remembering the night we met
and the day You left, and the Light
shifting in between.
By the side of it stands a picture of the poem where I promised,
“You will never have another lonely holiday.”

The words “I Promise” and “Forever”
begged me not to use them
but sometimes I don’t listen to God,
so You can imagine how much it hurt
to let Your last birthday pass
with no word. August 3rd.
You weren’t the only one comin’ up lonesome.

Listen, if I had to make a list
of everything everywhere
- and I mean everything… everywhere -
the very last to-do on that infinite list of
every – single – thing – would be – to hurt You,
so I need You to know
that in an attempt to keep my promise
I did write a letter to You on Your birthday.

It was covered in stickers of flock-printed stars,
choir claps, and a bonfire of buttercups stuck in the air,
but when I finally drew enough courage
to send You all the Love in the World
my hand snapped off in the mailbox
from clenching.

It was returned to me with a gospelstitch, a hope stamp
and a note etched into the palm I had to pry open
with the pressure of pitching doves
reminding me
we agreed to let each other go.

There is a point when tears don’t work
to wash things away anymore.
Grabbing for breath has now broken my fingers.
I miss You so much some days
that I beg for the airplane to crash
with just enough time in the freefall
for scribbling “I Love You” across my chest.
That way – when they find my burning breast plate –
they will tell You how the very last thing I did with my life
was call out Your name.

Buddy Wakefield

Inspiration

Jun. 5th, 2010 09:45 am
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Last night was KMM, or rather, KMN- Korean movie night at CrazyChris' place. The movie was 'I'm a Cyborg and that's Ok' and it was a lovely surrealist romp. Surrealism always makes me happy, movies that leave other people asking afterwards, 'but what actually happened? What was real there and what wasn't?' always sort of prove their own point to my mind; also my life *feels* like that, so there's a lot of validation I get there that I don't get from linear-chronological literally 'real' movies.

There were also a ton of people there, and it was cool. Beforehand CrazyChris was playing a game called 'God of War,' (the latest incarnation, can't remember which number it was) which, on his projector screen especially, was pretty epic. I don't know about the gameplay -- not my thing -- but I loved the way they successfully conveyed the scale of the, um, 'bad guys'. The PC was climbing up some of these gods, there were panning shots and pieces of him jumping from one limb to the other-- I was pleasantly impressed. Didn't see enough to be able to slag the story, the dialogue was painful but what's new, and I didn't touch a controller, so it was all good. Had a bit of a conversation the other night with the Writer while we were painting over video games as a story-telling medium-- always, in my mind, with a (vs roleplaying or vs timefiller/risk-reward-button-pusher) hanging onto some level of consciousness and so I'm watching this stuff with an eye to that.

Where was I going with this, though? Last night was nice. This morning was an honest-to-goodness morning off, nothing I need to do by noon or 4 or anything, so it was lovely to wake up and go straight to, well, to setting up my altar, to be honest. Somewhere in the last couple of years I've caved, gone from calling it a focal space to an altar, but it has accumulated a weight of holiness in that time too. Yeah, I'm throwing these big words around, and I'm comfortable with that, but you can rest assured that whatever you think I mean, it's probably wrong. In any case, my house feels homier now.

Then I went out into the garden and used up the last of my potting soil getting the tomatoes into big permanent homes. I'm eying a weedy corner of the yard for a couple of extra tomato plants and a couple of extra zucchini plants, and maybe even some okra-- don't want to disturb the chickweed completely there but I can plant through it I think. Better set out transplants rather than direct seeding though.

Now: breakfast. Whee!
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 When your first response to a request for your time is, 'I don't have free days.  I make time from blood and stones' you know you need to slow down and take some time.  You also may have just been spending a lot of time with someone who's innately dramatic.  In my case both are definitely true.

I was going to write about my soul.  I was going to write, you know, that it exists.  I was going to write that a friend of mine, known henceforth as Walker because he's come up a dozen times and now needs a moniker, actually flinches internally when I use that word.

I was going to write that I could feel it strongly this morning.  I slept the night at CrazyChris', it's been a long long time and he's been mentally absent for maybe four years now anyhow.  Now he's back, and we cried and talked and ranted and talked and cried and backrubbed and held each other, and I felt safe.  I've realised (I've only now realised it, or only this morning when I was lying there watching the green light come up into the room with morning and he was sleeping beside me and the room was the same, his freckles were the same, as they were when we were lovers) that I am safe.  I've realised that whatever happens, with whoever, whatever breaks or darkens or snaps or halts, whether or not it returns to me as a nourishing connection, I will always have friends who love me.  Any one person may not be present, no one may be available in the second I need them, but they will always be there.

During the hook pull I had my obsidian spheres (dark, one with a green eye for thinking and one with an empty pool for feeling) on long lines from hooks in my chest and back.  I put out my hands and spun around (I was wearing my blue girl skirt) and spun and spun and the dizzier I knew I was going to be when I stopped the more I kept spinning because I didn't want to be in that place yet.  The spheres lifted and sailed along, tugging their own dance, and they were connected to my flesh and they were part of me.  When I stopped (because everything ends) I dropped quickly and put my hand on the ground so I didn't fall.  The weight of the spheres was taken by the ground, and the world was fuzz around me.  In that moment I was free-- I did not soar (one soars on wings, or wind) or float (one floats in something) or fly (one flies in relation to other things).  I was me, not only me (which requires a comparison to another thing) or Me (in which I overshadowed the things around me).  I was just there, and there was nothing else, and there was nothing else.

Those two experiences-- one last weekend, one this --have stretched that continuum of connectedness and distance on both ends now.  My world is always getting bigger.  My self-knowledge is always getting bigger.  My sense of self?  it becomes, not bigger, but more steady and certain and sure and dependable.  I no longer require someone else to be my rock at the centre of the universe; I no longer require it of myself. My soul (yes, there it is) has attained enough mass that it is my rock.

I showed CrazyChris the most beautiful spot in the city.  We were walking-- it was so lovely out-- down the Drive, and he was going to soccer, and I asked him if he'd been there. He said (of course) that the most beautiful spot in the city was a pretty tall order, and I reminded him that I always choose my words deliberately.  When we walked up he looked at me with a cocked eyebrow, all skepticism, but when we sat down he understood.

We watched a robin bathing together there.  That space, that one tiny space, is peace distilled.  It is powerful magic.  It is most beautiful.  It feeds the soul and leads one to freedom.

And I always choose my words deliberately.

I am more free now than I was yesterday morning.  I am also slowly becoming more bound, more enmeshed in the net that holds me up.  I can feel smoke curling up from fresh cauterization and I can feel the lightness of many strands bearing up against my inner gravity.

I wish I could speak more clearly.  I wish I could press the imprint of these times into your mind.  I can't.

I was going to write: This is me without fingernails, typing, intent, leaned over the laptop.  But-- the ring on my device goes off-- Angus has texted me to say he's back across the border and will be home soon.  The real world flies back in.  There was peace at that spot with CrazyChris, there was the incredible joy of realising I didn't have to be anywhere and I could walk back in sunshine so hot that had I been standing only in my black leather boots I would have been sweating -- it's the first time this year -- and there was the dive into language like flying through clean air and sunlight.  Now there's only a girl and clicking keys and a laptop with one song playing over and over again in the background.

It's been quite a weekend.

 Here's back to the real world.

Crashing

May. 3rd, 2010 10:54 am
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Jamais-vu. Dissociative. Slow-minded. Disoriented. Lonely. Thin-skinned.

Writing it down helps.

If things had been less stormy with Angus since the pull I might feel more settled.

Bodyfeel

May. 2nd, 2010 11:02 am
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TS Eliot put a few words next to each other which keep sticking in my head. He was writing to his wife when he said, 'to whom do I owe this leaping delight' but that phrase stuck with me, and it rings through my head on days like these over and over.

Leaping delight is what I feel. My shoulder muscles are tired-- they've done very unusual things lately, from unusual directions. The tops of my shoulders were especially stiff and exhausted last night, and I slept lots. This morning carrying a bag a block takes those shoulder muscles past wooden feeling into that thin tight metallic feeling of intense exhaustion, and I am aware of muscles I don't normally notice. I am really sad that it's over-- I want to hook those balls up again and feel them pulling against my flesh in that crazy predictable dance with momentum and gravity.

I'm in my center. I like it here, I like being here, and here I am.

Gonna heal astoundingly fast, piercing wounds, even 11gauge, are tiny. Not sick anymore, and will stay that way if I sleep tonight. Couple hours' work and couple hours' snuggling on the agenda today, so it shouldn't be too hard.

Off to work in the rain now. Be well.

Nice

May. 1st, 2010 04:50 pm
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Four hooks, two front, two back. Easy in. I cried a little, put my obsidian spheres on long lines and danced and spun while they swirled, cried a little, laughed some, had Tillie and the other guy pull for awhile, screamed some, sang some, cried some, laughed some, and after awhile longer the hooks came out.

It was nice.

There was closing circle, opening circle, and an altar if we wanted to put things on it. There ws socially pulling interaction, but I as usual ended up very solitary most of the time.

I went many places, to the it's okay crying place, to the place where I was the free floating unencumbered center, to the column of light and power, to a place where my body was so much plastic and my soul swung wailing, to many more places.

Always I was and am myself.

Soon soon.

May. 1st, 2010 07:08 am
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The Spirit and Flesh Hook Pull is a body-based ritual, where one is pierced with sterile needles and hooks temporarily inserted on either side of the heart chakra and pulls against the piercings. This ritual focuses on sensation to reach an altered state of being or consciousness, often referred to as an ecstatic state. This ritual can be used to celebrate a passage, mourn a loss, heal old wounds, explore one's self, connect with a partner, connect with a higher power, or any other purpose that suits you.

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On the spur of the moment I went to Guu with Paul for dinner. I'm going to throw around the word "God" a lot in this post. Read it how you will, as you believe: serendipity, coincidence, one being or many. That's irrelevant to what I'm writing.

Drew gave me the most connected hug I've had all month before dinner. May be relevant.

God opened the way for dinner-- we were going to go somewhere else, or not go at all, but Paul was magically made un-broke and I was as well. So we went to Guu. Normally when we go there together we eat until we're not hungry; not until we're full, but until we've had enough. Tonight we were positively gluttonous. Together we ordered and shared:

grilled squid legs
marinated eggplant (mostly mine, he doesn't like eggplant much)
salmon yuke (salmon sashimi in soy something sauce with a quail egg served with prawn crackers)
baked black cod
pumpkin croquette (mostly his, too sweet for me)
pork intestine (one of the two absolutely spectacular wins of the night. So rich, so texture-y, so meaty)
yellowtail neck (I have never had fish so melty, soft, and buttery in my life)
black sesame rice cake for dessert (I was reduced to chanting 'oh god, oh god, oh god' under my breath while eating this, it's the other big win)

There's something really nice about small plates, isn't there? But it was pretty much a rolling-home sort of full. I would have eaten another order of the black sesame cakes if I hadn't thought my stomach would literally burst.

The sun was going down as I walked to the skytrain. I got in it and when I got off at Joyce it was dark.

Now let me make it abundantly clear that I am prone to and used to a variety of brain states, of mystical experiences. Good food will set these off, if I do even a half-day's fast it doesn't even take good food. Sunshine will do it sometimes, lack of sleep will help induce other ones. I can ride religious ceremonies without even trying. You can tell I was prepped earlier today by the happy list I made.

So near the end of the skytrain ride and the wait for the bus I was beginning to feel love. This fierce adoration/worship of/from everything rises up and it pushes on my skin both from inside and outside. I feel like I'm going to burn up, or explode, or burst into tears (these are good things). At this point I don't feel the oneness-with-the-world that I read about in brain studies. Instead I feel an intense attachment with the world, but everything is seperate from me still. I don't know, words are failing me but I'm going to write until it's down. Bear with me.

So there I am on the skytrain or the bus and the sky is dark blue along the horizon and darker blue above and there's this feeling in me, and the window is cold against my cheek and my elbow. And I do the thing I always do: first I think who I can call and say 'I love you' to, because normally I reflect this feeling like a mirror, redirecting it. I think, there's no one it's okay to say that to this intensely right now. Then I start to analyse it, to take the feeling to pieces so I can come home and tell you guys about it because it's a big wonderful feeling I want to share.

Here's where something that's never happened before happens. I think: no.

Do you know that when I was with Angus, when he loved me, over Christmas sometime in there, it was the first time I'd ever relaxed enough in someone's love to just feel it and accept it as okay, rather than loving them back as hard as I possibly could every second I could feel their love directed at me? It was okay. It didn't matter whether I was good enough or not, that was beside the point. I was loved, and loved gladly, not loved by what I gave in return.

So I remembered that, some thread of Angus lingering in my thoughts from the first redirection attempt, and I relaxed. I set something down, I softened something, and instead of bring a rigid surface that caught and reflected or preserved I just let myself feel that love directed at myself. And it... came in, and it held me, and it kept loving me. I didn't cry on the train.

This sounds so ridiculous, so silly and self-help-book and pop psychology, but it didn't feel like that at all. It was a palpable warm thing, it was absolutely completely the same feeling of being held by my mom when I was very little and upset and she held me and everything was magically okay. It was this feeling, but it was coming, not from a person, not from mom or Angus, but from the world.

And of course love is a feedback loop. I loved it back harder because it loved me. There was so much that I was certain I was going to break, but the love I was receiving was totally non-invasive, very gentle, it just sort of kept enough pressure on the outside of my skin that the return emotion I was feeling on the inside of my skin didn't explode me.

And so I called Angus because he and Piotr are the two people in my life who I can talk about this sort of thing to and not feel stupid and flailing for words (well, not too flailing for words) and we talked me through it a little more-- I kept tensing up and trying to redirect or analyse and then catching it and relaxing again.

And by the time I got home, by the time I'd walked the long block down the alley, I was crying. And the thing about this love that I felt directed at me is that no person can be worthy of it, do you understand? It's a big and complete-unto-itself thing that doesn't need me and there's no amount of doing- or being-something that can bring it about or that can stop it. It was just there. And the thing is that I feel/felt intensely unworthy of it. I feel like I need to fight for love; I don't trust it if it's freely given, I suppose, but I also feel like I'm failing in my duty if I'm receiving it and not giving anything. But the thing is, it was so obviously present and definite and loving that it sidestepped my feeling unworthy of it, it went around and through like sunlight goes through your hands and reduces your flesh to a rosy glow. It didn't disappear the unworthiness. It just coexisted for awhile so I could see both at the same time. And so I felt thoroughly loved and relaxed and held, which I seldom do.

So you guys have read some of my downs now (especially if you read a year or two or four back on this blog) but I've never documented an 'up' as thoroughly. I've never had such an epiphany about joy, never learned from the experience of love and wonder, like I have from pain. So here we go. Here's the beginning. Things love you, Greenie: people and things and life and everything. As the Desiderata says, I have a right to be here. Remember that. And remember that it's okay for things to be that way.

Something very old is being healed this year.

Now I feel quiet, a little drained, there's an odd tension and an odd peace in there. I can't quite relax because I don't want to let the experience go, but it's over for now and I need to.

I can't quite relax, but I think I can surrender myself into the trusted embrace of my bed. It'll reach up and hold me gently and wrap itself around me, and that's what I need right now. I need something to hold me.

The Light

Apr. 10th, 2008 11:13 pm
greenstorm: (Default)
I made a movie about the end of the world
it was 12 seconds long and it didn't have a plot
it just happens
and that's why it's in black and white
the characters don't talk or move around
they just stare up at the sky, frozen
and the light, the light is numb, the light is off
the light is just a thumb nail sketch of god
god...

somewhere, someone is crying
the camera sweeps over a desolate street
holding a mother and her child
the kid is calm and she is shaking
the camera passes into the sun
come at last to be undone
panicking, she tries to run
the kid is calm
and then the credits roll
and every name is my name

(There are three or four "mystical states" I achieve regularly. One of them has started only recently, and it's where everything seems to be outlined in light, and light pours through it, and it comes right in through my skin, hits my brain directly... who was it that was talking about the research into the part of the brain that separates "me" from "everything else"? This isn't a full on world-on-my-skin experience, just beauty-through-it. Bah, dunno what I'm talking about. Felt it the other day during dinner with Mom. Anyhow.)

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